


A Lasting Impression

by saturni_stellis



Category: Fawlty Towers
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturni_stellis/pseuds/saturni_stellis
Summary: Everyone had heard of Fawlty Towers. Well, they'd heard of the Famous Fawlty, anyway. In fact, more people knew about Mr Fawlty than they did the hotel itself, and if someone knew the man and not his line of work, “That man owns a hotel!?” usually followed.
Relationships: Basil Fawlty/Sybil Fawlty
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A Lasting Impression

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heyitsjames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsjames/gifts).



> I just want to say how utterly delighted I am that Fawlty Towers was requested for Yuletide!

It wasn't as though Polly expected life after art school to instantly whisk her away to some romantic expedition on the continent, wandering museums and art galleries, falling in love with new languages, and exploring a bright new world. She was a sensible girl after all; hard graft pays off, her father always said. 

She’d at least expected something more than _this_ , though. In only a week at the golf club, she’d already been heckled across the bar by a drunk, had her bum pinched whilst collecting glasses from the tables, and on one unsavoury occasion—though, perhaps it could be called savoury—had a sausage roll thrown at her head when she’d served a gentleman a brand of whiskey he didn’t like.

No, there had to be more to life than this. Even in Torquay.

“I haven't seen you before. Are you new?” 

Polly smiled and nodded as she poured the orange juice, eyeing the woman she was serving where she sat propped at the bar. She wasn't old, but she carried herself with the maturity of someone who’d lived a whole life already. There was something glamorous about her too, despite that hint of middle-aged desperation, of clinging to one’s youth. She had big hair to match her big voice, despite being a tiny little thing. She wasn't posh, unlike the others that came here, but she wasn't common either. Her manicured nails and perfect makeup made that obvious.

“Just started last week,” Polly said as she handed the woman her orange juice.

“And how are you finding it?”

“Oh, well—” 

“'Scuse me! Two gins straight up over 'ere please, love!” 

Polly turned towards the voice at the other end of the bar. It belonged to one of the regulars, who spent more time drinking than golfing. “One moment please, sir. I'm just serving this lady.”

“What sorta bloody service, eh!? Ain't got all day sweet'eart, quick as you like!” 

When Polly turned back, the woman merely raised an eyebrow. 

“That’s pretty tame compared to what I've experienced so far,” Polly said under her breath. “If that answers your question.” 

After ten minutes or so, Polly's pristine customer opted out of a second orange juice and paired her well-loved Mills & Boon with a large white wine instead. She introduced herself as Mrs Fawlty, and after a thoughtful pause, asked Polly if she had any notice to work out here. 

“Well, no, not really. They never actually gave me a contract. Why do you ask?” 

Mrs Fawlty explained that she had a hotel, a _nice_ hotel with a position open. A better job with better pay, and better hours if she wanted them. 

“My husband Basil... well, you get used to him. If you can deal with the rabble in here, you can deal with anything.”

Polly was flattered. Hotel work sounded more interesting than being a golf club bar maid. There’d be fewer drunk customers, too. At the end of her shift, she slipped Mrs Fawlty a card with her phone number on the back and told her she was interested. 

The next morning, she got the call. 

*

The weather in Torquay had nothing on Spain’s. The postcard he'd received depicted a picturesque seaside town with a beautiful blue sky and bright, blaring sun. A pothole-riddled driveway leading to a building that looked like a half-eaten humbug (and nothing like a tower) wasn’t what he’d expected. But as Manuel stood before Fawlty Towers, suitcase in one hand and a crumpled piece of paper with the hotel’s scribbled address in the other, he anticipated his new, prosperous life here. At least that’s what the postcard promised after his eldest sister translated it for him. 

Waiting in the gloomy drizzle at the bottom of the steps, the door opened, revealing a tall figure of a man who looked like someone from an old painting: not quite fitting into the modern life of the nineteen-seventies. He barely fit into his suit either. He hurried down the steps and barked something in English.

Manuel stared up at him, puzzled. “…Que?” 

The other man's shoulders drooped, realisation spreading slowly across his worn face. “Uh. Usted... está, Manuel?”

“Si, yo soy Manuel. Encantado de conocerte!” 

The tall man gave him another confused look but greeted him with a weak handshake regardless, leading him inside.

Entering the hotel lobby, Manuel scanned his new abode. It was no picture postcard, certainly no English palace either, but as he stopped before the front desk, a friendly young face with a head of fluffy blonde hair greeted him with a smile. 

Could be worse, he supposed.

*

Everyone had heard of Fawlty Towers in Terry’s line of work. Well, they'd heard of the Famous Fawlty, anyway. In fact, more people knew about Mr Fawlty than they did the hotel itself, and if someone knew the man and not his line of work, “ _That man owns a hotel_!?” usually followed. 

Still, Terry could see himself being comfortable here. With a small kitchen and limited staff, he’d essentially be his own boss. Seated before the esteemed, not-so-legendary Mr and Mrs Fawlty, it became apparent that neither of them knew as much about haute-cuisine as they let on.

Arms crossed over his chest at one of the dining room tables, he watched the couple muse over his haphazard, typed-that-very-morning CV. 

“Did you do any sort of training?” 

“Oh yes, of course, Mr Fawlty!” Terry answered, pointing to the line on his CV. “Went to the finest catering school in the county.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“Yes, sir. The weekend course at South Devon College.” 

“Oh good, so you know how to unscrew a gherkin jar, then.”

“Basil!” 

Terry leant back in his chair and flashed the hotel proprietor a smile. Fawlty wasn't all that bad really. From the stories he'd heard, he was expecting some sort of Generalissimo – Torquay's own Al Capone, perched on a big leather chair, bossing an exhausted housewife around the shop whilst he revelled in the splendours of dainty chambermaids. 

Fawlty was anything but that. He was a lanky, awkward fella whose limbs barely fit on one his own dining chairs, with a wife who'd probably never let him see the light of day again should he even think of laying an eye on members of the fairer sex. It was obvious who the real boss was, even if the licence plaque had the name “Basil Fawlty” plastered on it. 

“I've worked in plenty'a kitchens much bigger than the one you 'ave here, Mr Fawlty, no offence. I know how to work under pressure. Tight deadlines, quick orders, that sorta thing.”

Fawlty rolled his eyes but his Mrs shot him a sideways glance, silencing him before he had the chance to open his mouth. 

Truth was, Terry knew they were having trouble finding a chef. The simple fact was no one wanted to bloody work here. But it was easy money for easy graft, and Terry had dealt with worse than Fawlty. Anything was better than shifting his arse back to Dolcoath mine, or worse, joining the army, as his old man so often suggested. 

“Well,” Mrs Fawlty said, giving Terry a sweet smile. “I can't see any reason not to offer you the position, Mr Hughes. I think you'll fit in here nicely.” She outstretched her hand to shake on it, but her husband stopped her. 

“Don't you think we should offer him a trial first, dear?” he asked through gritted teeth, as though not moving his lips meant Terry couldn't hear him. 

“Rubbish, Basil. We never offered Freddie a trial.”

“And look what happened!”

“Freddie was with us three years. It’s not his fault he slipped a disc, is it?”

“Well, if he'd told us he needed glasses I never would've left the thing on the floor in the first place!”

“Basil—”

“I mean, I'm not a mind-reader, am I? I can't know every single thing about every member of staff, can I!? I'm not Joseph bloody Dunninger—”

“Basil!” 

Fawlty's head snapped forward obediently, and he extended his hand across the table. “Congratulations, Mr Hughes. You've got the job.”

Terry took the hand, hiding a chuckle behind a satisfied grin. “Thank you, Mr and Mrs Fawlty. You won't regret this, I promise.”


End file.
